


On The Cover of Rolling Stone

by Shoshanna Gold (shoshannagold)



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-23
Updated: 2010-07-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 02:04:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoshannagold/pseuds/Shoshanna%20Gold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>You don't come back from a tour of duty and expect life to be the same as you left it. It's one thing to come back and find out that your boyfriend painted the kitchen. It's entirely a different thing to come back and learn that he has groupies.</p>
    </blockquote>





	On The Cover of Rolling Stone

**Author's Note:**

> You don't come back from a tour of duty and expect life to be the same as you left it. It's one thing to come back and find out that your boyfriend painted the kitchen. It's entirely a different thing to come back and learn that he has groupies.

The beat throbbed through the club, reverberations humming through the wooden bench Brad was lying on. Even all the way the way backstage, past the dressing rooms and managers' offices, he could hear Ray's voice, confident and strong as he introduced the final set. The crowd went wild when the band broke into 'Box of Grenades,' the song that had caught on in the California alt-indie scene like wildfire.

*

Brad was in Afghanistan when Ray's band went viral. He missed explosion of hits on the band's Myspace page, the sudden flurry of downloads, and apparently, some minor stalking after shows. Ray didn't say anything about it in their few phone calls and only peripherally in email, when he once mentioned that his band had a lot more shows booked than they'd for planned this summer. It wasn't until he got a letter from Poke that he learned about the sudden rush of acclaim. There was a note, _Have you seen what your boy is up to these days?_ , along with front-page clippings about the band from every alternative weekly southern California.

There had to be some reason that Ray wasn't telling him about the band, and so the next time Brad was able to phone home, he didn't press the issue.

Four months later, he was reading a copy of the LA Times on his flight home and there was a review of the Retards Anonymous show at the Viper Room. A very good review, at that. Apparently, it was time to ask some questions. It felt strange to think about: Ray had always told him everything Brad had ever need to know about him, generally even before the question had formed in Brad's thoughts. He found this new reticence, if that's what it was, strange and disconcerting.

But Brad had literally made a career of patience. So he held off on his interrogation. He waited until after the family love-in at the airport. After his dad had finally convinced his mom she could see Brad the next day at brunch and got her to leave the welcome home party. After Ray had gone down on him in the kitchen next to the half-eaten cake, and after he'd fucked Ray hard and fast in the hallway and then again in the shower. Then, sated and clean, he rolled over in bed and looked at Ray expectantly. He didn't think it would take more than that, not with the way Ray had been particularly manic at the party after Brad's sister had hit him up for comp tickets for the next show.

It didn't. Ray looked at him and rolled his eyes. "I know what you're fucking doing. Sorry to shatter your illusions, Brad, but that Iceman glare really only works on people still under your command."

Brad let his face show his disbelief for a minute, and then he went back to his steady scrutiny of Ray, who relented with a huge sigh. "Fuck, Brad, I wasn't hiding it from you. I mean, I guess I kind of was, but it has nothing to do with me shutting you out of my life or getting groupie trim, or anything like that." Ray said, yawning as he pulled the quilt closer around them. "It's just – shit, man, I don't want you distracted out there. It all happened so fast and it's been so crazy. You don't need to be thinking about my rise to local indie fame or whatever this fucking is when you should be thinking about other things, like killing Hajjis and staying alive."

"That's a fine line of bullshit, Ray. You expect me to believe that you though the news of you actually making money off all the caterwauling you've been doing for years would be distraction enough for me to lose sight of where I am and step on a IED?"

"Yes," said Ray. "That. Exactly that. Christ, I have nightmares about that. That and the many other ways you could get fucked up out there. I'm glad you're home if only so I can finally get a decent night of sleep."

Brad touched his hair, smoothing his hand over Ray's head, still wet from the show. "I am not going to get killed because I stop paying attention to my job," he said, gentling his voice. As much bullshit as Ray was feeding him about the band, the rest of his diatribe rang true. "Especially not because I'm thinking about your scrawny whiskey tango ass doing a dive into a mosh pit. And you damn well know that. So what the fuck, Ray?"

Ray rolled over and smooshed his face in the pillow. "Okay, fuck, you're the Iceman out there. You wouldn't do stupid shit like that. It's just that, fuck, I don't know," he groaned.

"Look. If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine. But I have to question what the fuck we're doing here if that's the case." Brad propped himself up and rubbed Ray's shoulders. He might be slightly pissed and completely confused, but it had been months since he'd had been able to touch Ray, and he'd missed the feel of the ink on his skin, the way the line of the snake in the Recon tattoo was soft under his thumb.

Ray was still for a minute, letting Brad map the tat, and then he rolled over again until they were pressed right up against each other. He leaned up and kissed Brad, and it was explicit and dirty and somehow sweet. It explained very clearly what they were doing. Or part of it, anyway. Brad kissed him back, not at all careful about how he used his teeth or tongue. There was a small cut on Ray's mouth when he finally pulled away. Brad wanted to lick it.

"It doesn't feel real," he said quietly. "We've sold a couple of thousand cds, we're booked every weekend from 'til Christmas, fuckin' Reporter called me for a quote for a goddamn _Rolling Stone_ review. I mean, Christ, I thought we were good all along, so why now? It just feels like something that's happening to some other guy. And fuck if I know how to tell you over a long-distance line, a call that I know is being screened by Uncle Sam and fuck knows who else, that I'm suddenly a rock star or whatever the fuck this is. I mean, I don't know how to explain this shit at the best of times."

Brad raised an eyebrow at that. He'd read the interviews Poke had sent. Ray had proven in print that he could talk eloquently and enthusiastically about the band over and over again.

Ray sighed. "Seriously, Brad, you're in fucking Fallujah, shit everywhere, and I'm supposed to tell you that my garage band is getting some air time? Could that be any less important to you at that time?"

Brad considered that. It had mattered to him, but he could understand the fucked up rationale. There was so much happening over there; it was hard to give due consideration to what was happening on the homefront, and Ray knew that. "And?" he prompted. There was more. With Ray, there was always more.

Ray shook his hand and closed his eyes. When he looked back at Brad, everything had been stripped from them but an emotion Brad knew but had trouble putting into words. Ray never had that problem. "The truth is that I didn't tell you about it because I didn't want you to come home and it all to have gone away. If we suddenly tanked or some kinda shit went down, you couldn't be there. I would have been pretty fucking upset, and you wouldn't have been able to do a damn thing, and that would have sucked for both of us. That's fine, this is how we roll, but it sometimes seems easier to not tell you how awesome something is in case it’s gone or over by the time you get home. And, fuck, I sound like such a fucking girl. Who knew that dating a dude would give me an honorary vagina or wherever this shit is coming from.”

Brad cupped his cheek and kissed him. When Ray didn't pull away from him, he put an arm around his shoulders and brought him in closer. "I should have called you more when I was over there," he said. "Called more, emailed more."

Ray made a noise of dissent, but Brad shook his head. "There was plenty of opportunity: it was nothing like OIF. We were in POG camps half the time, and the RM were handing out satellite phones like candy, especially to Special Forces."

"There were days in Iraq that I would look to my nine and expect to see you there," he said slowly, trying to find the right words. "In fact, I'd _hope_ to see you there or to hear your voice over comms, and I'd be pissed off that you weren't there. Completely fucking irrational, but there you have it. Maybe you should have told me, but I definitely should have asked."

"So what you're saying is that we're co-dependent assholes in denial." Ray turned back over, pulling Brad's arm with him. "Actually, we're not really in denial anymore, are we? So, fuck, yeah, the band is doing better than I ever dreamt it would. It's actually making money, and I might break even on everything I've ever spent on making music, which is a fuckin' novelty."

"That's good, Ray. You can get that Strat you've been having wet dreams about for the last five years." Or Brad could buy it for him. Ray's birthday was next week, and it seemed like the perfect way to let him know how happy Brad was about his success. Or he could just tell him. "I'd love to see you guys play again. The last time was in Jeff's garage, and the acoustics fucking sucked."

"Why only see one show when you can see them all," said Ray. "You've got so much leave saved up that they shouldn't even let you on base for the next six months. We've got gigs lined up out of town every weekend and I want you to come with me. Groupie, roadie, and my Yoko Ono built into one. Dude, it just doesn't get any better than that. What do you say, Brad? Are you up for our own version of _Almost Famous_? Fuck, Reporter will be at the San Jose show. All we need is a guy holding speakers over his head and we've got the makings of a gay Cameron Crowe movie. It's going to rock, man! I should get Lilley along to film it."

Brad kissed the back of his head. He always felt open, exposed, after a confession like that, and Ray always knew the best way to take care of it. They would make it because Ray could read him like nobody else, and actually knew how to deal with whatever he saw in Brad. "No, Ray. We are not going to give the Court-Martial photographic evidence of me violating DADT," Brad chided, curving his body to fit around Ray's. "And there's only one instrument I'm going to be tuning along the way."

*

Touring with Ray's group turned out to be the best leave Brad had ever had, including that truly memorable week in Burkina Fasso. Good music, the booze was usually comped, and all the shows were booked in coastal towns, so Brad surfed some spots he hadn't been to since high school.

The best part, though, was at the end of every show. Brad listened to the crown beg for another encore and heard Ray break into the vocals for 'Manimal, My Animal.' As the heavy drum beat picked up, he stroked his cock through his jeans, getting ready.

Five minutes later, the crowd was still hollering for more as Ray and his bandmates came backstage, laughing and talking shit at each other about the show. The other guys stopped in the green room to take advantage of the impressive liquor selection the club manager had left for them, but Brad knew the sound of Ray's footfall from a hundred feet. It never failed: no matter where he ended up backstage in whatever bar they were at, Ray found him with the accuracy of a Tomahawk. This time it barely took a minute before Ray was standing over him, his sweat dripping onto Brad's t-shirt.

"Good show," Brad said, looking up at Ray. "Nice job covering the riff problems on 'Sunshine, Sunshine.'"

"Thanks. We gotta get Stephen to stop breaking all his fucking strings at the same time," Ray bitched, unzipping his jeans and stripping off his t-shirt. He was wet from head to toe and Brad leaned forward, licking a long line of moisture from his hipbone.

"Fuck, Brad." Ray said as Brad slid forward on the bench, taking Ray's hard cock into his mouth, sucking hard and then opening his throat. Ray rested his hand on Brad's head and Brad knew he was looking around to make sure they wouldn't be spotted, but Brad had done the recon already. In a club crowded with five hundred people, he'd made damn sure that he and Ray would be alone for as long as they needed to be. Ray fucked into his mouth to the beat still strumming through his body, and Brad took him with ease, the rhythm as familiar to him as his own heartbeat.


End file.
